Icarus Rising
by sudipal
Summary: post-Reichenbach, Empty House remix, cabinlock Sherlock-is-Martin fic. Rated T. After the Fall, Sherlock finds a way to take down the rest of Moriarty's Syndicate in secret.
1. A New Beginning

****Disclaimer: I own neither _Sherloc_k, nor _Cabin Pressure_, nor any of their characters. All rights belong to their respective owners.

* * *

**Prologue: A New Beginning**

"Is this your poor attempt at humor?" asked Sherlock.

"I thought it fitting," replied Mycroft. Sherlock could almost see the smug grin his brother was using all his might to suppress.

They both stared at the run-down van parked in front of them, _Icarus Removals_ painted in bold letters on the side.

"Just... give me the keys."

Mycroft handed them over along with a manila envelope. Sherlock pocketed the keys and opened the envelope, sifting through the papers it contained. "Martin Crieff?" he asked, as though he was calling attention to a foul smell. "What sort of name is that?"

"A forgettable one," Mycroft answered. "Are you going to complain about everything?"

"I think I'm entitled," Sherlock responded.

"That much is obvious."

The younger Holmes huffed in disapproval, but said nothing.

"This may be the last time we see each other for a long while," Mycroft told him. "Really, it's dangerous that we're together now." There was a moment of tense silence where it seemed like he was about to say more, but, instead, he changed the subject. "Make sure your funds won't deplete too quickly; I can't provide you with any more."

"Don't say it..." Sherlock expressed, already knowing what his brother meant.

"You may even have to find a job," Mycroft explained anyway.

"Doing what?" inquired Sherlock. "All I have is this van. Which, by the way, do you expect me to drive it all the way to Russia, or to the States, or to wherever else any names from Moriarty's syndicate might lead me?"

"I couldn't very well secure an aeroplane for you."

"Then I'll have to find one myself," Sherlock announced.

Mycroft raised his eyebrow. "And how, may I ask, are you going to do that?"

"I haven't decided yet," he admitted.

"Just make sure I don't hear about it when you do."

"Of course."


	2. Business As Usual

**Chapter 1: Business As Usual**

"_The Wizard of Oy_," said Douglas, sitting in the co-pilots chair aboard Gerti, sole jet of MJN Air.

"_The Hunchback of Notre Damn_," said Sherlock from beside him.

"Not bad," replied Douglas.

"Morning, Gents," greeted Arthur as he appeared in the flight deck. "Here's your coffee."

"Thank you, Arthur."

"Thank you, Arthur," Douglas echoed before adding, "_Beverly Hills Cod_."

"Excellent."

"Ooh, what are we playing?" Arthur asked excitedly. In his opinion, Douglas' word games were always the highlight of the flight, along with the cabin addresses, takeoff, landing, and, if given enough time to think the matter over, pretty much all the rest of it as well.

"Film titles with the last letter replaced," Douglas explained.

"Brilliant! Let me have a go... Um, let's see..."

"Don't think too hard now, Arthur," said Douglas.

"Wouldn't want you to break something," Sherlock added.

"Famous film titles... famous film titles," Arthur thought out loud. "Oh, I know! _There's Something About Mark_."

"Replace the 'Y' in _There's Something About Mary_ to make _There's Something About Mark_?" Douglas commented with a pitying shake of the head. "Not quite what we were aiming for, but good try, Arthur."

"Well, give me some more time," Arthur responded, unfazed. "I'll come up with a great one, I swear."

"Forgive me if I don't hold my breath."

"You'll see," replied Arthur. "It'll be great!" He immediately left, retreating to his place in the back of the plane in order to start composing a list.

The two pilots were alone again, and within a few moments, Douglas broke the silence by humming _Moonlight Sonata_.

"And why are you so chipper today, Douglas?" Sherlock inquired.

"Am I?" responded Douglas in mock-ignorance.

"If you were in higher spirits, we wouldn't need Gerti in order to fly," Sherlock told him. "We'd just strap the cargo to your back and take off. You've been completely blissful this entire flight- it's sickening."

"Well, I'm sorry, Martin," he replied. "I'll try not to let my vast rays of sunshine pour through the dark clouds hanging above your head."

A few moments later and Douglas was humming again. "Okay," Sherlock sighed. "I'll bite. What amazing stroke of luck did you happen to come across as of late?"

"All right," said Douglas. "I'll tell you. I, Douglas Richardson, am in love."

"Oh," Sherlock said flatly, already bored by the new path of conversation. To be fair, he was already bored and was pessimistic that his mood would change, and the first officer was only validating his theory.

"Oh?" Douglas inquired, feigning indignation.

"Well," explained Sherlock. "You've fallen in love at least once a month since you became single again; it's hardly earth-shattering news. Who is it this time? Another stewardess from Air England?"

"Hardly. She is an angel dropped from heaven. Beautiful, kind, sweet-tempered-"

"Does she think you're an airline captain this time?" asked Sherlock, remembering of the third and most recent ex-Mrs. Richardson.

"No," said Douglas. "I have learned from my past mistakes and have vowed that this relationship will be built on complete honesty."

"Really?" said Sherlock in disbelief, considering his co-pilot's romantic history, but he had a part to play. "I'm proud of you, Douglas. That shows some real maturity on your part."

"Yes, well, it had to happen sooner or later, I suppose," Douglas conceded.

Sherlock considered Douglas' news, and began to ask, "So how did-"

"_Mary Popping_!" came the sudden shout of Arthur's voice as he reappeared in the flight deck, interrupting the pilots' conversation.

"Excellent, Arthur," proclaimed Douglas. "You said you could do it, and you did."

"Told you so," Arthur declared.

–

It had been nearly three years. Three years since he fell from the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Three years in his life after death, secretly hunting down the remainder of Moriarty's Syndicate one by one; every success meaning another step closer to rebirth. Undoubtedly, Sherlock misses his former life: the cases, the mysteries, running around all of London while on the hunt for a serial killer, the scent of Mrs. Hudson's biscuits as she presents a new batch to her tenants and tsks at the sight in which they've left their flat. He especially misses John. John the flatmate, doctor, ex-soldier, amateur blogger, and angel on Sherlock's shoulder. John, his friend.

It could be worse, he admits. He has funds, thanks to Mycroft, on whom he's been more dependent in a way he hasn't since he was a young boy in need of a guiding hand. The funds are the barest minimum, and the fear of any suspicion is enough even to keep the brothers having only indirect communication (and only then when absolutely necessary). Luckily, money doesn't really matter to Sherlock: a roof over his head and a kettle to boil the tea is enough. It's information that Sherlock is most concerned about; he awaits eagerly for Mycroft to supply him the details he needs to track the next of Moriarty's elite. Every individual turns into a number signifying a countdown.

Also (and this surprised him greatly), he's not lonely. He had started off knowing very determinedly that he would be fighting this fight alone. And while it is true that he is going after the Syndicate single-handedly, his not-quite-death has introduced him to a group of people who have lifted him out from a darkness living deep within his heart.

In spite of it all, he has a soft spot for Carolyn. She reminds him a bit of Mrs. Hudson; however, whereas Mrs. Hudson had become a mother figure to him, Carolyn is more like an aunt: familiar, yet not as comfortable.

He even liked Arthur. Sure, he may have an IQ lower than Anderson's, but he is good, probably the only truly unhypocritically good person who ever existed. And whoever said ignorance was bliss must have met Arthur; his simple faith had renewed Sherlock's lowly spirits on many an occasion.

Douglas is... interesting. Whereas Sherlock was usually the one to whom everyone else turned in order to solve the tricky problems and generally to save the day, here it was Douglas. No, Sherlock was not jealous of the man for it, only that it served as a constant reminder to what the former detective had left behind. Oh, he was always glad to find another clever mind, yet there was also something a bit heartbreaking to see such wit go to waste. As the saying goes, he's a big fish in a small pond, and Sherlock was sure it was the pilot's ego keeping him from improving his lot in life.

–

Landing back in Fitton, the crew of MJN Air returned to the portacabin. Carolyn was about to leave complaining rather unconvincingly that Herc was dragging her out to the ballet tonight, which meant that Sherlock would have to use double his brain power to finish the paperwork within a reasonable hour, as Arthur would, instead of leaving with his mother, use the same measure of time to tidy up and ask Sherlock nonsense questions about topics ranging from the laws of gravity to the amount of thickness required for a substance to be categorized as slime. Sherlock, though loath to admit it, found these conversations entertaining in a simplistic sort of way. In the mean time, however, Sherlock sat down to start writing in the logbook that was currently resting on his desk, but kept one eye on Douglas, who was gathering his coat and personal items from his pigeonhole.

There was a sudden knock at the door, and Douglas being closest, opened it to reveal a strikingly-featured woman with dark hair and moss-green eyes. Douglas' face instantly lit up and he welcomed her, saying, "Well! This is a surprise."

"That was my intention," she replied with a wicked grin.

Douglas beckoned her inside and announced to the room, "Everyone, I'd like you to meet Genevieve Saffron. Jenny, this is Carolyn, Arthur, and Martin."

Sherlock and Jenny exchanged glances, as Jenny explained that it was a pleasure to meet all of them and that she had heard so much of them from Douglas already. She moved to shake everyone's hand, and Sherlock rose from his seat to greet her. "It's a pleasure, Ms. Saffron."

"Please, " she told him. "Call me Jenny."

"And you can call me Martin."

"Well," Douglas said. "We must be off, dinner reservations and all..."

"Of course," smiled Jenny. "Nice to meet you all." With one final wave, the couple departed.

When they were gone, Arthur broke the silence by saying, "Well, she seemed brilliant."

"You think everyone's brilliant, Arthur," Sherlock reminded him.

"Yeah," Arthur told him. "But she was especially brilliant."

"Indeed," Sherlock responded, and acted to return to his paperwork, careful not to reveal the small note concealed in his hand, which read: _Let's have dinner_.

–

Later that evening, Sherlock found himself at an upscale restaurant in the nicer part of Fitton. Near the front of the establishment stood a bar, and Sherlock took the empty stool next to Irene. She turned to him with a wan smile. "Two dead people walk into a bar..."

"That's some joke," he replied, in anything but a jovial tone.

"It also has the benefit of being its own punchline," she informed him, taking a sip from her drink.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, ready to get straight to the point.

"They make a killer martini."

"That's not what I meant."

She sighed. "I found out my mum got sick. Don't look at me like that- she doesn't know- but I couldn't bear being so far away from her."

"Sentiment," he scoffed.

"Yes, sentiment," she said in an offended tone. "Unoriginal, I know, but at least no one will fault me."

"They'll praise you as they kill you. 'She was a fool, but at least she was good to her mother.'"

"And what about you?" her voice judgmental. "Your entire reputation was destroyed; death is easier to remedy than that."

"I hope to kill two birds with one stone."

"How do you intend to do that?" she asked. "For that matter, how do you intend to do so as an airline captain?"

"I've been hunting after Dear Jim's associates," he explained. "Most of the big names are dead or in custody, but I still have several more to seek out. When they're taken care of, the Syndicate will finally crumble to dust. I'm so close to success, I can taste it."

"And no one at your job has any idea?" she inquired.

"Not at all."

"Douglas?"

"He sees what I want him to see," Sherlock said to her. "Speaking of which, what does he see in you?"

She gave him a sideways glance and took another sip from her drink. "What you really mean is 'what do I see in him?' Well, what can I say? Brainy is sexy."

"He's self-destructive," Sherlock warned her.

"And you're not?" she asked, finally turning fully in her seat to face him directly.

"I'm all too aware of my own faults," Sherlock conceded. "This is my penance."

"So," said Irene. "You're a fallen angel trying to gain acceptance back into heaven."

"Do you enjoy metaphors?" he inquired with a hint of spite in his tone.

"Only my own," admitted Irene. "I prefer everyone else to be straightforward." She paused for a moment, considering. "But do you really believe this is your penance? I never took you for a religious man, too haughty for that. On second thought, I take back my fallen angel comment, you're more of a displaced god."

"If you're just going to ridicule me," Sherlock expressed to her. "I'd prefer just to act as strangers around each other and keep our secrets safe. That's why you brought me here, isn't it? To make sure we're on the same wavelength?"

"Sherlock..." she uttered his name only a little more audibly than a breath. It felt strange on his ears after not hearing it for so long. "You misunderstand my intentions. You saved my life once; I want to return the favor." She gently placed her hand on top of his where they laid on the bar.

"Help to bring down the rest of Moriarty's Syndicate?" He curiously stared at her hand over his, as though he had never been touched before and it was an unfamiliar sensation. "Why? It could be dangerous for you, end up destroying the new life you've built."

"Despite what we both want to tell ourselves, we do care for each other. I want to help." He looked into Irene's eyes, and she smiled. "Besides, no one should be your downfall but me."

A faint smirk rested on Sherlock's lips. "You've already tried."


	3. Covert Affair

**Chapter 2: Covert Affair**

It was a three star hotel this time, and only because Carolyn had joined them on the trip to Oslo. If she hadn't, it probably would only have been two stars; though, at least everyone would have had his own room. This scenario, however, usually called for Carolyn and Arthur to share one room, Sherlock and Douglas the other. Sherlock didn't mind, however, because he knew Douglas did; therefore, the first officer would do something devious in order to get what he wanted. By the time the jet landed, sure enough, Douglas had his own room. A peeved Carolyn took the second room to herself, forcing Sherlock and Arthur to share the remaining one. This new arrangement, however unlucky Martin Crieff may be to be stuck for the night with MJN Air's voluntary steward, made things a lot easier for Sherlock to sneak away. If, say, Douglas had noticed anything out of the ordinary, especially where his captain was concerned, he wouldn't let the matter go until all secrets were divulged. As it is, though, if Arthur were to notice something a bit off, Sherlock could make up practically anything and it would be believed, such was the man's gullibility and trust.

Sherlock changed out of his uniform and into a suit, grabbed his overnight bag, and flagged down a cab. Only a few blocks away, the cab pulled up in front of a more upscale hotel, not quite the Grand Hotel, but it would do.

A young woman with a pleasant smile stood behind the check-in counter. "Velkommen," she said. "Er du her for å kontrollere i?"

"Excuse me, but do you speak English?" Sherlock asked, though he understood her.

"Of course," she said politely. "I asked if you were checking in?"

"Oh, yes," replied Sherlock. "My name is Jeremy Sigerson; I believe my wife has already arrived?"

The woman typed something into her computer and after a moment explained that Mr. Sigerson was all set and that, yes, his wife should already be in their room. Sherlock thanked her as she handed him a key card.

Upon entering, he quickly scanned the suite before placing his bag on the queen-sized bed. He could hear the shower going, but paid it no attention as he walked over to the window and looked down at the street below.

"It's nearly dark," a female voice said from behind him a few minutes later. He turned around and took in the sight of Irene in a cotton bath robe, leaning against the door frame of the bathroom.

"You had better get dressed then," Sherlock told her.

They locked eyes for a moment, then Irene effortlessly tugged at her belt and the robe fell to the floor, pooled at her feet. Silently and covered in nothing but makeup, she went to the wardrobe where she had previously hung her clothes and began deciding what to wear. Sherlock, for his part, did not want to show any sort of emotion concerning her actions; after all, a reaction was the only reason she did it. Calculating all of his choices, he walked past her and into the bathroom. He did not see Irene's satisfied smirk, but knew it was there anyway.

–

"Here goes nothing," Irene whispered in Sherlock's ear as they walked into the hotel's restaurant, their arms linked together. Sherlock scanned the room and locked onto his target, who was facing away from him and sitting by the bar. When they were only a few steps away from the man, Sherlock turned to Irene and announced, "Darling, why don't you find us a seat, and I'll get us some drinks?"

"Of course, Sweetie," she replied, and immediately left him in search of an empty table.

Sherlock continued on his way to the bar and stood next to the man he was after. "Two martinis," he told the bartender, and then he made his move. "I've never been to Oslo before," he said, turning to his left, where the man sat. "The atmosphere over here is amazing."

"It's a remarkable city," said the man beside him, who turned to face Sherlock. "Vincent Newcomb," he said, extending his hand in greeting.

"Jeremy Sigerson," Sherlock replied. "Ah," he said happily. "I deduce you are a fellow Brit, are you not?"

"Indeed, I am," said Vincent. "Here on business. And yourself?"

"The missus and I are on holiday," he explained, tilting his head vaguely in the direction of the dining tables. "And she loves meeting new people; come and join us. What'll it be? I'm buying."

"Oh," Vincent protested. "I couldn't possibly."

"Nonsense," said Sherlock. "A reminder of home will be a welcome respite during the overwhelming nature of travel. I insist."

"Well... Alright. Gin and tonic, then."

"Gin and tonic it is," Sherlock smiled.

He gathered the drinks, and the two of them joined Irene at the secluded booth she had picked out.

"Darling," said Sherlock. "I'd like you to meet Vincent Newcomb. Vincent, this is my wife Eve."

"It's a pleasure," Irene greeted him.

"Likewise," said Vincent.

"And where are you traveling from?" she asked.

"London," he explained. "I'm here on business for a few weeks."

"Well isn't that lucky! Trust Jeremy to be in a completely foreign environment and find an Englishman."

The three began their small talk and seemed to be having a jovial time to any outside observers. "My company sends me all over the world," Newcomb explained at one point in the conversation. "It's a great perk, though I don't always get enough of a chance to experience the sites due to meetings and such. Sometimes, I see the inside of my hotel room more often than the city."

"Oh, that is a shame," Irene replied sympathetically. "Although, I'm sure you can still manage to find ways to entertain yourself?" As she spoke, she lightly ran her foot up Newcomb's leg. He immediately jumped back. Once he regained his composure he apologized, blaming his leg which had just fallen asleep.

"Oh, I hate when that happens," Irene told him, and he stared back at her uneasily.

As the evening went on, Irene continued trying to tempt the man with her covert come-ons, but each time, he shied away from her. It was reaching the point where Newcomb was practically only speaking to Sherlock unless directly spoken to by Irene. Sherlock soon realized that this mode of conduct was only serving to scare Newcomb away; a new tactic had to be implemented. Originally, Sherlock was meant to excuse himself at some point, allowing Irene to distract Newcomb as Sherlock made his way to the man's hotel room and sifted through his things for any important information connecting him to the Syndicate. He and Irene would have to switch.

It seemed Irene had come to this conclusion as well. "Ooh," she groaned, bringing her delicate fingers to her forehead, "My head."

"Is it another migraine, Darling?" Sherlock asked. "She gets them terrible," he told Newcomb.

"Yes," she moaned. "It must be all the drinking. If you'll excuse me, I think I need to go lie down in the room." She rose from the booth, and as she did, so did Sherlock.

"I think I better make sure you're all right," he told her.

"No, no," she insisted. "The best cure is to lie down in bed with the lights off and in complete silence until I fall asleep. You'll be absolutely bored. No, you just continue to play with your new friend." She gave them both a tired smile. "I'll see you later?"

"Okay," Sherlock replied. Irene gave her fake husband a light peck on the cheek, said her adieus, and left the two men alone.

"Your missus is quite a woman," Newcomb informed Sherlock as soon as they were alone.

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "She's the only woman for me."

"Lucky you."

"What about you, though?"asked Sherlock. "Any special lady waiting for you back in London?"

"No," said Vincent, chuckling lightly. "Not at all." He locked eyes with Sherlock. "But it must be nice to have someone to go home to every night?"

Sherlock studied Newcomb, the way the man was looking at him. There was something he was missing, something... Oh! "Of course, of course," Sherlock replied. "It's great having her by my side, but, sometimes, a man needs something a bit more _solid_ to grasp onto than the constant whims of a woman." Sherlock leaned in closer to Newcomb and brushed his index finger over the side of the criminal's hand.

"Sigerson...?" Newcomb breathed.

"Call me Jeremy," Sherlock smiled.

And, just as the former consulting detective suspected, Newcomb smiled back.

–

Newcomb fumbled for his key card as Sherlock pressed up against him, gliding a hand slowly down his side. Their conversation had progressed to the point where Newcomb had invited Sherlock up to his, which Sherlock seized as an opportunity to successfully capture the man into custody without drawing attention to himself. Sherlock only hoped he had given enough time for Irene to find the information they needed and leave the room undetected.

Newcomb finally opened the door and flicked on the lights as they both entered. Sherlock scanned the room, but, thankfully, saw no sign of Irene anywhere.

"You sure your wife won't notice you gone?" Newcomb asked.

"No," Sherlock told him. "She gets these migraines a lot. Rest assured that she is practically dead to the world right now."

Newcomb smiled and walked over to Sherlock, running his hands down Sherlock's chest. Then he leaned in and began pressing kisses to the former consulting detective's jawline. Sherlock stiffened; he hadn't actually considered what would happen when they reached the hotel room. He had planned on subduing the criminal for Mycroft's men to pick up later, but suddenly realized that he had not yet worked out how he would manage it. He pushed himself away, explaining, "I just need to freshen up a bit."

"Hurry back," Newcomb said, as Sherlock made his way to the bathroom. He closed the door and made sure to lock it before leaning back and running his hands over his face.

"Still the blushing virgin," Irene whispered, and Sherlock was ashamed that he jumped slightly at the sound of her voice.

"What are you still doing here?" Sherlock whispered back.

"I had to find this," she said, holding up a flash drive. "But if I had known you were going to put on a show, I would have made some popcorn."

"Give me that," he said, taking the flash drive and putting it in his trouser pocket. "Newcomb's waiting. I'll need you to help me restrain him."

"Kinky," Irene grinned mischievously.

"Be serious," Sherlock admonished her. "To take into custody."

"I'm sorry," she said. "But you're adorable when you're flustered. Of course I'm going to help you, but you better get back out there, or he'll wonder what's taking you so long."

Sherlock eyed Irene once more before reentering the bedroom. Newcomb was lying on the queen-sized bed in just his underwear. "Why don't you join me?" he beckoned Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled and walked over. He sat on the bed, but at a noticeable distance from the other man. Newcomb, mistaking his hesitance, leaned up and began to massage Sherlock's shoulders. "You're so tense," he said, pressing a kiss just below Sherlock's ear. "Let me help you relax." And then his hands wandered down from Sherlock's shoulders, stopped briefly at a nipple, and made their way down to his thighs.

Sherlock shuddered, which Newcomb took as a positive sign. "Don't be shy," he said, reaching a hand into Sherlock's trousers. At that moment, they both froze. Newcomb pulled his hand away to examine what he had just grasped. "Is this my flash drive? How did you get this?"

Sherlock jumped up and faced Newcomb. "I know of your ties to Jim Moriarty. The gig is up."

"Who are you?" Newcomb asked, anger boiling to the surface.

"The names' Sherlock Holmes," he answered proudly.

"Holmes," Newcomb gasped. "So the rumors are true."

"Rumors?" Sherlock questioned.

"That your death was not so permanent," he explained. "The Colonel's convinced of it; guess he'll be pleased to know he was right. Well, only one way to rectify that." He quickly reached underneath his pillow and pulled out a knife, lunging at Sherlock. Sherlock, however, was moments quicker, and managed to sidestep the blade, though they both ended up on the floor. "Not exactly how I imagined the two of us would end up tonight," Newcomb laughed madly above him.

"Sorry to disappoint you," Sherlock said, straining through the effort of holding back Newcomb's wrist from allowing the knife to plunge forward.

"Oh well," he said. "There are plenty of fish in the sea."

"Just watch out for the sharks," said Sherlock.

Newcomb grinned, the blade just millimeters from Sherlock's chest. They locked eyes, and both knew this was it.

A porcelain vase smashed over Newcomb's head, and he slumped over into unconsciousness. Sherlock gracelessly rolled him over and then stood up. After dusting himself off, he looked to Irene. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Use the curtains to tie him up," he instructed. "Make the knots as tight as you like."

When Newcomb awoke into fuzzy consciousness a few minutes later, Sherlock began interrogating him immediately, while Irene took the time to scan further though the flash drive with his laptop.

"Who's 'the Colonel'?"

Newcomb groaned. Sherlock repeated himself. Sherlock hated repeating himself.

"Your worst nightmare," he finally answered.

"I hardly think he'll compare," Sherlock said.

"He's been keeping tabs on the late Moriarty's associates. I disappear and he'll know you're alive for sure. Probably does by now. You'd be a dead man walking, if you weren't one already."

Sherlock had enough. He took Newcomb's shirt, which had been lying on the floor by the bed, and tied it around the man's mouth in order to keep him silent.

Sherlock then whipped out his mobile.

"Why are you phoning me?" was Mycroft's immediate response, the formality of greetings dropped.

"My cover is blown," Sherlock told him.

"I warned you to be careful."

"I'm always careful," Sherlock said, a hint of anger rising in his voice. He quickly calmed himself down; there was still business to get through. "I need you to find out everything you can about Codename: 'The Colonel.' Get back to me as soon as possible with the information."

There was a slight pause at the other end of the line. "No need," Mycroft began slowly. "I know of him well. Real name: Sebastian Moran. Ex-military, dishonorably discharged about four years ago after being discovered selling government secrets to the Iranians. He was imprisoned, but disappeared from his cell after three months."

"Moriarty?" Sherlock inquired.

"Most likely. Since then, he's been linked to over thirty assassinations, and was last spotted in Venezuela."

"Well, he's back in England now. And he knows I'm alive."

"Sherlock," he warned. "You must catch Moran before he catches you."

"Obviously."

"A man like this is not so easy to capture," Mycroft told him.

"I know," said Sherlock. "I'll be returning to London immediately."

"Sherlock..." He could hear the hesitance in his older brother's voice.

"Yes?"

"Good luck."

–

"Are you alright, Martin?" Douglas asked, glancing at his captain.

"Hmm?" said Sherlock, turning to him. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason," he answered, taking in the other man's tense demeanor. He had looked distracted during the pre-flight checklist, and now hardly paid attention to Douglas' witticisms, much to the first officer's chagrin. "You just seem like there's something on your mind."

Sherlock paused for a moment, considering. "Well, there is, actually."

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked. "We don't have to, if it's too personal."

"No, no... It's just... Are you happy, Douglas?"

"I suppose," he said, truthfully. "I'm as happy as the next man, at least. Is that really what you were wondering?"

"Do you resent me?" Sherlock continued. "I'm a young, bumbling, nervous, uncouth man; you're a worldly, likable, experienced pilot. The better pilot. And yet, I'm the captain. I'm only here because Carolyn is cheap. You should have had the position, not me."

"While I do agree that I am the better pilot," said Douglas, and Sherlock huffed out a laugh, "I believe that we're all where we're meant to be." He carefully considered his next words, "At first, I think I did resent you a bit. I certainly didn't like you very much. But, to be honest, over time and as we've got to know each other and share so many experiences, we've become something like friends."

"You consider us friends?" Sherlock looked positively shocked.

"Well, what do you consider us?" inquired Douglas.

Sherlock thought about the past three years. If he had to be honest, at first, he wasn't too fond of Douglas, either. Or any of them, really. He wasn't looking to make friends; he only needed John, and their reunion was his goal. But the more time he spent with this motley group, the more comfortable he grew around them. But he had so many other things on his mind, he never noticed. It was only now that he'd come to think about it that he realized that he genuinely liked them. He smiled to himself. John would be pleased to know that there were more people about whom the great Sherlock Holmes actually cared.

"You know, I think maybe you're right," said Sherlock.

"I usually am," Douglas replied.


	4. Disguised Ambitions

A/N: This chapter contains lines and dialogue borrowed from another post-Reichenbach fic of mine "His Justice Cannot Sleep Forever" (which can also be found on FFNet).

* * *

**Chapter 3: Disguised Ambitions**

Douglas was last to arrive. He usually was. He did, after all, have a life. It was much easier when they went through the flight briefing during the pickup, but Carolyn had recently cheapened out again, and forced her pilots to come to the airfield on their own, arriving there early enough to go over everything. Douglas hoped that by continuously not arriving on time, he would force Carolyn into arranging for taxis again just to ensure he wouldn't miss a flight and cost them a client. It hadn't worked yet. Probably because Carolyn knew that Douglas would never intentionally lose them any business.

He walked towards the port-a-cabin and saw Carolyn and Arthur coming from the other direction. "You're late, Douglas," Carolyn said to him.

"As are you," he replied. It was much too early for proper greetings; why did their clients have such horribly inconvenient schedules?

"Ah, but you see," she told him. "I'm the boss. I can do as I please. Likewise, I expect my employees to do as I please."

"Hello, Douglas," greeted Arthur, much too cheerfully for this time of the morning

"Hello, Arthur," he said.

The three stepped inside the port-a-cabin. "Has anyone heard from Martin yet?" asked Carolyn.

"Yes, where is our noble captain?"

"Mum," said Arthur, picking up an envelope he noticed on the captain's desk. "This has your name on it."

"Does it?" she said. "Well, give it here." She took the envelope from her son, and saw that, indeed, the name "Carolyn" had been written on the front. She then opened it and read silently to herself.

Douglas watched as Carolyn read the letter. He first noticed as her brow furrowed and lips pursed. Moments later, her face whitened, and, finally, there developed a slight tremor in her hands. Furiously, she crumbled the letter up into a ball and threw it across the room, missing the trash bin, not even aiming for it. She turned to her office and slammed the door behind her.

"Mum?" Arthur called after her. Worried, he moved towards her office, but Douglas held him back.

"Wait a moment, Arthur," he said. He then went to where the balled up letter rested on the floor and bent to pick it up. He smoothed it out on his chest before reading it out loud.

"'_Dear Carolyn,_

_With deepest regret, I hereby tender my resignation as captain of MJN Air. Due to the nature of the circumstances which have led to this event, I must leave immediately without the traditional two weeks notice. The specifics behind my departure are too detailed to explain in this letter, but, I assure you, the truth will be revealed shortly enough. _

_I cannot fully express to you my gratitude for allowing me to work for your company. I owe you more than I can ever repay._

_Sincerely,_

_Captain Martin Crieff'"_

Douglas scanned the letter again, hoping to somehow find a clue that he didn't see the first time. "I don't understand," he said. He felt a bit sick, like someone had punched him in the gut.

"Good," said Arthur. "Then I'm not the only one. That's a relief." He paused for a moment. "Skip's never coming back, is he?"

"No," said Douglas, meeting Arthur's saddened gaze. "I don't think he is."

"Can't you fix it?" asked Arthur. After all, Douglas could fix anything; he was like magic.

"I don't think I can," Douglas told him. He hated Martin in that moment, for abandoning everyone in such a heartless manner, but he hated himself, and the fact that he didn't prevent any of this from happening, just a little bit more.

–

"_Like everyone else, I've developed an interest in the recent murder of Ronald Adair. Hearing about the strange circumstances surrounding his death and the lack of sufficient evidence left at the scene of the crime, I've realized more clearly than ever the loss which England has sustained by the death of Sherlock Holmes."_

John saved his entry and sighed. While the popularity of his blog had dwindled significantly with the death of his friend, there were a few who still liked to comment on his posts, namely Harry, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and even Bill on occasion. He knew Lestrade still read his posts, too, as he would sometimes mention them when they would meet up at the pub for a pint. They never mentioned Sherlock, though; it was a silent rule between them. Too much pain there. While Lestrade still retained his position at Scotland Yard, his relationship with his superiors was on shaky ground. The detective had taken a chance on Sherlock and wound up almost losing everything.

John missed Sherlock desperately. While everyone always commented on how John had reminded Sherlock how to live among humans, Sherlock had reminded John how to live. Sherlock had lifted John from a very dark place, and he will always be grateful. But his best friend is gone, nearly three years now, and he still felt the sting of it in his heart.

John grabbed his coat from the rack beside the door and left his flat, deciding to take a walk and clear his mind a bit. He thought about the murder, listing all of the facts in his head. Ronald Adair, as was well known, was the CEO of Maynooth Enterprises, in which his family were the majority shareholders. The young, workaholic philanthropist was recently found shot dead in his home office while examining his recent bank statements. The curious part, however, was that the door was locked and had no forced signs of entry. None of his family members or the maid heard any strange noises, and, indeed, Adair's body was not discovered until well after his death. Police were baffled. Initial suspicion fell upon his ex-fiance, Ms. Edith Woodley, but she was quickly cleared with a sound alibi and lack of motivation (they ended their relationship on mutual terms). He was a well beloved man and made friends easily. His only true vice, it was recently revealed, was gambling. He belonged to a secret club, which only accepted high-stakes bidders. But even that big break turned out to lead nowhere. He had no debts to be repaid, and, actually, he had recently come into a large sum of money in a cards match. The other participants, also immensely rich, did not constitute their losses as very large hits to their fortune and bore no ill-will to the man, either. Adair had seemingly no enemies, and there was no evidence of anyone entering his home office at the time of his death. It was a strange case, and one the John hoped would-

He did not see the old man, and, lost in thought, accidentally bumped into him, causing the stranger to spill a cup of coffee all over himself. The man, John observed in the small amount of time allotted to him, was gray-haired, hawk-nosed, covered his eyes with sunglasses, and wore baggy clothes, which currently contained a large stain all down the front. The man, understandably, shouted in anger and frustration.

"I'm sorry, sorry," John stuttered in bewilderment.

"Why don't you watch where you're going?" the man replied, uselessly attempting to brush the stains away with his hands.

"I apolog-" began John, but the man had already turned away from him and disappeared down the street. Agitated by these events, John decided just to return home and call the day a loss.

Back at the flat, he put the kettle on and sat down on the sofa to watch television. Not five minutes after his return, the doorbell rang.

When he opened the door, he was shocked to see the man he had recently bumped into on the street.

"I'm sure you're surprised," said the man.

"Uh, yeah," said John. "Look, I don't want any trouble. I'll pay for dry cleaning if you want."

"No, it wasn't your fault," he explained. "I hadn't been watching where I was going, but blamed you instead. I turned back with the intention of apologizing to you, and noticed you head in this direction. I was surprised to find out that we're practically neighbors; I live right across the street from you."

"Well, let me offer you a cuppa, at least," said John, glad that the situation now had a happy ending.

"Some tea sounds really good right now, actually," said the man. "You wouldn't believe the day I've had."

John went to get another mug from the cupboard, and turned back around to see Sherlock Holmes standing before him.

The image of Sherlock just as quickly disappeared, and John now only saw a white canvas with a few patches of rust stains and peeling paint. Oh, there's a spiderweb, he noticed in blurry confusion.

"I underestimated your emotional response," said Sherlock, standing over his friend, a worried expression on his face. "I apologize for shocking you. Are you all right?"

"Sherlock?" John stammered, lifting himself off of the floor. "You're, you're..."

"Alive?" he offered.

"Ginger."

"Oh yes," Sherlock smirked. Seeing the familiar curve of those lips and the knowing gaze of those piercing eyes made John almost want to break down and cry. "Part of a disguise I was using to get around unnoticed."

"But you were the old man?" John asked in confusion.

"That was just for you," Sherlock told him.

"I'm honored," John said, bitterly.

"Thinking it over," said Sherlock. "The dramatics of my reappearance before you were probably a bit unnecessary."

"Just a bit..." said John, rubbing the back of his head. "So am I dead or dreaming right now?" He extended his hand and poked Sherlock in the chest, wondering if his finger would push beyond. Thankfully, it didn't. "I hope that I haven't gone crazy. That would really put a damper on things."

"You're not crazy, John," said Sherlock. "I am really here. I faked my death that day in order to stop Moriarty's plans from reaching their intended conclusions, and I then took it as an opportunity to go under the radar as I managed to dismantle his Syndicate and destroy his legacy."

"So you've been alive all this time?" John asked, the situation finally becoming clear to him.

"Yes," said Sherlock.

John punched him in the face.

"I deserved that," said Sherlock calmly, cradling his soon to be swollen cheek.

"Do you _know_ what you put me through?" John yelled at him. "I saw you... you dead, all bloodied on the pavement. You forced me to watch as you jumped. The nightmares I had. Having to relive those images, hear your goodbye over and over... And wonder what I could have done to prevent it. But you were alive? All this bloody time!"

"I'm sorry, John," said Sherlock, feeling just as broken as his friend. "I truly am."

John grabbed him into a tight hug. It took Sherlock a moment, but he returned the gesture. They parted after a minute, and John wiped away the tears from his eyes.

"If there had been any other way..." Sherlock paused, but quickly recomposed himself. "There's still work to be done. After faking my death, I've spent my entire time trekking the globe, hunting down the remainder of Moriarty's Syndicate, some of the deadliest men and women who have ever walked this earth. Now I am down to just one, and my advantage is lost because he has already figured out that I'm alive. I can't do this alone anymore. Will you help me?"

"Of course," said John.

There was then a slight quirk to his lips, and that made John want to smile as well. John listened with rapt attention, soaking in the presence of Sherlock: his stance, his gesticulations, and, most of all, the sound of his voice.

"I cannot impart strongly enough how important it is to catch this man," Sherlock continued. "If not, then all of my actions have been for nothing, and it would not have mattered had I actually plunged to my death that day."

John stared into his friend's eyes. "It matters to me," he said softly.

Sherlock wore the look of an apology, but said nothing, and, instead, moved away to view out the nearby window. After a moment, he spoke again. "I'm tired, John," he said. He turned his head, and John saw the exhaustion written all over Sherlock's face. John was well aware that Sherlock never slept during an investigation, and he wondered just how poorly the former consulting detective had treated his body during what could only be considered the most difficult case on which he had ever worked.

"My bed is in the next room," John offered. "Why don't you take a nap?"

"No," said Sherlock. "There's still too much to do. I can finish this once and for all." Nevertheless, he walked over to the nearby sofa and sat down on it. "Do you still have your old army service revolver?" he asked.

"Certainly," said John. "It's in my nightstand." He then went to go and fetch it.

John returned to the sitting room only moments later carrying his revolver. "Sherlock, I-" he began, but stopped when he gazed towards the sofa to find that Sherlock had fallen asleep where he lay, undoubtedly exhausted by his overwhelming revelation and reunion with his best friend. John carefully placed his revolver down on a nearby table and moved over to Sherlock, reaching out to grab the throw from the back of the sofa to place over him. John then sat down in his armchair and watched over the consulting detective, who was currently dead to the world, and John was glad that was just an expression.

–

It felt like old times again as Sherlock and John rode together in the cab later that evening. Sherlock was silent the entire time as he looked out the window. It seemed as though they were on their way to Baker Street, but John was surprised when Sherlock had the cabbie stop a few streets away. He led the way down some side streets and alleys, until they stopped in front of nondescript house. Sherlock produced a key, and they entered together into the darkened building. Sherlock obviously knew where he was going, even in the dark, leading John down a mildewy hallway and up creaky stairs until they reached an empty room, faintly lit by the street lamps outside.

"Do you know where we are?" Sherlock whispered.

John walked over to the old, dirty window and looked outside. "We're on Baker Street," answered John. "Across from our old flat. Why?"

"The view is advantageous," said Sherlock. "Look a bit closer at 221B; tell me what you see."

John peered outside again. "What?" he said in confusion after a moment. Across the street, 221B stood the same as ever, except the curtains were open and one could see directly inside. There was a strong light, and the silhouette of a figure that looked remarkably like Sherlock's own sat in a chair by the window.

"Well?" said Sherlock.

"Who's in there?" asked John.

"It's a dummy," Sherlock explained. "I arranged it all this afternoon before coming to meet you."

"What for?"

"Because I very strongly wished for a certain person to think I was there when I was really somewhere else."

"So we're not the only ones watching the flat right now," said John.

"Precisely," said Sherlock. "I made sure that the Colonel see me arrive this afternoon, but not that he see me leave."

"The Colonel?" asked John.

"The man who is after me; the man whom we are going to capture tonight."

They both watched the view outside for several more hours. John was getting restless and fidgety, and could tell Sherlock felt the same. It was past midnight, the streets were cleared, and there was no sign of the Colonel.

John searched his brain for some consoling remarks when his eyes glanced again at Sherlock's double across the way. "You moved!" exclaimed John.

"Hm?" asked Sherlock, other things clearly on his mind.

"In the window," he explained. "You moved."

"Of course," said Sherlock, a tone of annoyance in his voice that he reserved for less intelligent people. "What do you take me for, John? I couldn't have such an obvious stand-in while under the scrutiny of the second most dangerous man London has ever beheld. He'd never be deceived. I arranged it so-" Sherlock suddenly cut off, pulling John quickly into the shadows, behind some abandoned furniture and debris.

John was about to speak up in confusion, but Sherlock put a hand over his mouth to silence him. He could feel Sherlock's hands shaking in excitement, and it was unnerving to see the man who was usually so calm in such an agitated state.

But John quickly understood why, as he heard the creak of the floorboards at the top of the stairs they had climbed hours earlier. Now he could hear the not-so-silent steps as the person entered the very room in which he and Sherlock had occupied themselves. They leaned even further back into the shadows. John steadied his breath, and tried with all his might not to utter a sound as he tightened his grip around his revolver.

Adjusting his eyes to the darkness, he could make out the vague outline of a broad-shouldered man of average height. The figure stepped forward into the room and crouched in front of the window that only moments ago had stood Sherlock and John. He did not notice anyone else's presence, only focusing his attention on his intended task. He raised the dusty window pane a few inches, and soon revealed a rifle that had been previously hidden under his coat, which he aimed through the window opening.

John could see his face a bit better with the yellow street lamps painting him in a sickly shade. He was smiling gleefully as he peered through the scope of the rifle, even huffing out a breath of laughter, undoubtedly at the ease with which he was about to destroy his target. John first heard the whizzing sound before his eyes comprehended the sight of the trigger being pulled and the bullet traveling the long journey across the road, cracking Baker Street's second-story window, and embedding itself in the head of Sherlock's double.

John then realized that Sherlock was no longer beside him. Instead, he had tackled the Colonel to the ground, and both men fought each other. At one point, the Colonel gained the upper hand and had his hands around Sherlock's throat. But it was two against one, and John quickly regained his senses, running over to the scene. He hit the Colonel over the back of the head with the butt of his trusty revolver, causing the villain to slump over and fall into silent unconsciousness.

He helped Sherlock off the floor. "Thank you," said Sherlock. "That's the second time this week. I must be getting out of practice; something that I'll have to rectify."

John didn't know what he meant, but, instead of asking, only proceeded to secure the Colonel with the handcuffs Sherlock had the foresight to bring along. He noticed Sherlock text someone and then slip his phone back into his pocket.

"You never did tell me how you got that dummy to move, you know," John told him.

"Quite simple really," said Sherlock. "I instructed Mrs. Hudson to crouch on the floor and shift the mannequin every so often."

"With _her_ hip?" John asked.

"She's a very capable woman," said Sherlock.

"You don't have to tell me that."

"You should have heard her scream when I knocked on her door earlier," he said. "Her voice carried for miles."

"I'm sure she had a thing or two to say to you," John chuckled.

"Worse than one of Mycroft's lectures," chuckled Sherlock.

"We can't laugh," John told him. "You're dead and I'm crazy."

They laughed even harder.

Just then, they heard the stomping of feet running up the old and creaky stairs. In stepped the familiar faces of DI Lestrade and Sgt. Sally Donovan. To attempt to explain the looks on their faces would lose an important detail in the translation, but surprised would suffice for the time being.

"I have a present for you," Sherlock said. "I think Scotland Yard will be pleased. Three undetected murders in one year. I'm a bit disappointed; although, the way you handled the Molesey case was fairly adequate."

"I got your text," said Lestrade, ignoring the remark about his professional skills. "Rushed right over here. This the fella you were telling me about?" he asked, indicating the man on the floor, who was slowly stirring back into consciousness.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran," Sherlock explained.

"Whuh..." the Colonel murmured in confusion.

"Oh, good," said Sherlock. "You're awake. I'd hate for you to miss anything important."

"You're dead!" shouted the Colonel, trying to jump to his feet, but held back Sally, who had moved over to collect the criminal. "Hear me? You're dead!"

"Too late," said Sherlock.

"All right, all right," said Lestrade, taking Moran over from Sally. "Colonel Sebastian Moran, I'm arresting you on the charge of the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes. You have-"

"Wrong," interrupted Sherlock.

"Wrong?" repeated Lestrade in surprise.

"The attempted murder of an already legally deceased individual," replied Sherlock. "Hardly a victory in that at all. But let me be the first to congratulate you on the arrest of the murderer of Ronald Adair."

"Adair?"

"Here's the Colonel's rifle," said Sherlock. "You'll find that the ballistics reports will match. You see, the Colonel and Adair belonged to the same club, and partnered up in a recent game of cards. Together, they came into quite bit of cash. But Adair later realized that Moran had cheated, and wanted to return the money he had won and expose Moran's doings."

"That's why he was looking over his bank statements," added John. "To see how much he needed to give back."

"Precisely," said Sherlock. "But the Colonel couldn't have that happen, so he came to Adair's home, waited in a nearby tree (I can show you which, if you'd like), and shot Ronald with this very same rifle."

"That's a pretty story, Mr. Holmes," said the Colonel. "Let's see if it holds up in court."

"Yes," agreed Sherlock. "Let's."

"Come on, then," said Lestrade. "Colonel Sebastian Moran, I'm arresting you on the charge of the murder of Ronald Adair." He finished reading the criminal his rights and led him outside.

Sherlock and John were about to leave as well, but Sally stopped them. "Wait, Sherlock," she said, unease apparent in her voice.

"Sergeant?" replied Sherlock in askance.

"I'm sorry," she said, unable to look him in the eye. "I shouldn't have- I let my personal feelings get in the way of my judgment. I thought I was doing good. I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

"You were a pawn, Sally," he said. "Moriarty placed all the evidence in a neat little pile, knowing you, who already disliked and distrusted me, would come along to piece it all together. It wasn't your fault. You tried to stop someone whom you suspected was doing wrong. You performed your duty, nothing more."

"I used to be jealous of you, you know," she confessed, finally meeting his gaze. "I hated how everything seemed to come so easily for you, while I had to work to gain my position and the respect of my colleagues. You just waltzed in one day out of the blue, and suddenly your word was god. And you weren't very nice about it, either. You constantly made me feel stupid and pointless."

"I'll admit," said Sherlock, "that some of the things I've said to you were a bit unwarranted and unkind."

"Ditto," said Sally. "I didn't want to be jealous," she continued. "I wish I could have been proud of you like Lestrade, have your victories be my victories. I don't want to feel ashamed around you, or guilty, or superfluous. I just don't understand why things had to become so complicated between us."

"I suppose we could start over?" offered Sherlock.

"I'd like that," Sally replied in all honesty.

Sally extended her hand, and they shook in a friendly manner.

"You're still a freak, though," she added to ease the melodramatics.

"Normalcy is overrated," Sherlock told her.


	5. Elementary

**Chapter 4: Elementary**

Sherlock and John rode down to Scotland Yard to give their statements. The sight of Sherlock Holmes, alive and well, caused quite a sensation around the station. Any other occasion, Sherlock would have enjoyed seeing the looks on all of those faces, but he had other things on his mind at the moment.

"The media will have already got wind of the story by now," Sherlock said, sitting beside John with Lestrade in the latter's office.

"I'm sure everyone will be flocking to John's blog for details," said Lestrade.

"You think?" asked John, beginning to ponder over which parts of the tale would most intrigue the fans. The bit where he fainted, he decided, could probably be left out.

"Of course," said Sherlock. "And you'll probably focus on all of the unimportant components, just as before."

"Those are the parts people like to read, Sherlock," John told him. "They'll want to know what you've been doing all this time, how you tracked Moriarty's men, why you've dyed your hair ginger-"

"Auburn, actually," Sherlock explained. "I told you; it was a disguise."

"Yes," said John, "but eventually I'll need more details."

"Ditto on that," said Lestrade, leaning back in his chair. To be honest, Lestrade felt Sherlock did owe him an explanation due to the fact that he had a lot riding on the consulting detective and almost lost his shirt (and his respectability) when the man decided to take a nosedive off the roof of St. Bart's. But this was not the time; though, they would be sure to have a private talk before Lestrade lets him anywhere near any cases.

"Later," said Sherlock. "It's a long story, so once everything's settled, I promise. But I'd first like to examine the damage at Baker Street." He walked over to the door, making for a quick escape. "Coming, John?"

John and Lestrade exchanged glances as John arose from his seat. "Bye, Greg."

"So long," he called after the pair as they left his office.

–

John examined the life-sized mannequin, which sat in the nearby armchair with half of its head blown off. The Colonel happened to have very good aim, and so the doctor was very glad that the criminal's latest victim didn't have a skull to begin with. He tried not to imagine the flat pooled with blood- Sherlock's blood- congealing into a heavy river of scarlet, but he had seen the image in his dreams so many times before that on many occasions he would wake up in a cold sweat, afraid he had drowned in the thick red liquid.

He closed his eyes to recompose himself, then opened them a moment later, watching the very-much-alive Sherlock Holmes inspecting the broken shards of glass around the window.

"Look at this mess, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson commented from beside him.

"I promise to pay for the repairs," he told her. "It's the least I can do for your courageous work last night."

"Oh," she beamed, while simultaneously waving him off. "I'll get the broom." She then walked downstairs to her flat in search of the necessary cleaning supplies.

Sherlock joined John by the chairs. "It's good to be home," Sherlock confessed to him.

John looked at his friend uneasily. "Sherlock..." he began. "It's been three years. I don't live here anymore, _we_ don't live here anymore. I have a new flat; you were there already. Mrs. Hudson has a new tenant, and she's not going to kick her out just because you're back. That wouldn't be fair."

"I never said anything about kicking anybody out," said Sherlock, a bit peeved at the idea.

"So what do you think is going to happen?" asked John. "You can't just move back in here. That would never work. I can just imagine it." He paused. "Wait. Has anyone told you?"

Sherlock was about to respond, but, right on cue, they were interrupted by the sound of the front door being opened downstairs and the subsequent pounding of feet as they ran up the seventeen steps to the flat.

"Sherlock!" Molly exclaimed, out of breath and face glowing with joy.

She ran into his arms, pulling him into a hug. "Hello, Molly," he smiled, after she pulled back from him.

"I got your text," she informed him. "I left the flat right away, though I still think I should have stayed around to help."

"You've done more than your fair share," Sherlock told her.

"Molly," said John, trying to grab her attention.

"He's back, John," she said, unable to stop smiling.

"I know," he replied, and they both leaned in to share a kiss.

Sherlock watched them in shock. There was always one thing he missed, and he felt very silly for not knowing. Also, a bit uncomfortable. "Ahem," he cleared his throat, and the two turned to face him.

John answered for them. "Molly and I, well, we..."

"What? You two?" asked Sherlock, making a face.

"Do you find that so hard to believe?" asked Molly with an air of offense.

"Molly," he said, looking directly at her. "When I told you to take care of John, I didn't mean for you to shag him."

Molly's mouth just hung open, no words coming out. "Wait, what?" John spoke for her instead. "Molly..." he said, turning to her. "You knew?" She could see the hurt in his eyes, and she didn't know how to fix it.

"Of course, John!" Sherlock said. "Who do you think wrote up the paperwork for my autopsy?"

"I wanted to tell you-" she finally uttered, finding her voice, but he cut her off.

"You knew this _entire_ time?" He backed away from them, and moved towards the door. "I need to go. I need to think." He practically ran out, slamming the door behind him.

"John, wait!" Molly called after him, but it was useless. He was already gone. Instead, she turned to Sherlock, boiling in anger."Why'd you have to come back if you were just going to ruin everything again?" She instantly covered her mouth with her hands, regretting her words. "Oh, Sherlock, I didn't mean it! I didn't!"

"Yes, Molly, you did," he said with a dark expression.

"I'm sorry." She felt like she was about to cry, but held the tears back.

"I'm the one who should apologize," he said, slowly and deliberately. "There was no reason for me to say anything; I should have given you the chance to tell him."

"Well, it's too late now," she said with sadness in her voice. She knew he was trying to be nice to her, but he had never been any good at it before; why should he now after so long out of practice?

"You're not the one with whom he's really angry," said Sherlock. "I'll go speak to him."

"You'd do that for me?" Molly asked.

"Well," he shrugged. "I do owe you one."

* * *

Whenever John was angry enough to need space to recompose, there were usually two destinations where he would end up: 1) his current girlfriend's residence, or 2) the park. As one of the people from whom he currently needed said space _is_ his girlfriend, Sherlock knew exactly where to go to track his friend, and easily discovered John sitting sullenly on a bench by himself. Sherlock sat down beside him, but did not say a word.

"How'd you find me?" John asked, without looking at Sherlock. He then realized the stupidity of the question, and said, "Wait, don't answer that."

"John, I..." Sherlock began, struggling for the correct words, although he had rehearsed the scene in his head too often to count. He soon found his voice. "There were so many times over the last three years that I almost contacted you. I would have your number dialed into my mobile, and, at the last moment, I'd decide to abort the call. I wanted to speak to you so badly, even more than I've ever craved a cigarette, just so you'll fully realize the scope of my meaning." John snorted out a derisive laugh. "But I was afraid that if I made myself known to you that you wouldn't be able to keep my secret."

"Oh," said John. "Thanks."

"They were watching you," Sherlock explained. "If you believed, then they believed. Molly was practically invisible. If it wasn't for her help, I really would have died that day. She couldn't tell you. She was protecting both of us."

John let out a deep sigh. "I know. It's all just been a shock today. I haven't really had time to process any of it. You're alive, Sherlock. It took me so long to accept the fact that you were dead, and now you're here sitting beside me. I missed you."

"I missed you, too," he said.

"I need more time," John admitted. "You just need to bear with me for a bit."

"Anything," said Sherlock. "Just... forgive me."

John looked towards Sherlock and studied his face. It wasn't very often that the man wore his emotions so openly, and this more than anything helped reassure John that there was a living and breathing person sitting beside him right now. He felt just as raw as Sherlock, and he knew they both needed time for the emotional and psychological wounds to heal. He just hoped Sherlock wouldn't be as reckless with this as he usually is with physical bruising. Again, John wondered what his friend had gone through these past three years.

"Molly's probably worried sick," John said to him. "We should head back."

–

Douglas walked into the portacabin. Herc had talked Carolyn into a much needed holiday, and so she had reluctantly left Douglas in charge of any potential bookings. Arthur was there, too, trying to be of assistance.

"Arthur, where's today's paper?" the pilot asked, searching fruitlessly for the newspaper that he planned to read while having his coffee.

"Oh, can I take a look at it first, Douglas?" Arthur asked as he went to go fetch it from over by the door.

"Really, Arthur?" Douglas said with a great deal of surprise.

"Only, there's this girl who works at the zoo who's really, really brilliant, and she likes to talk about current events, but I don't know any. I want to be able to impress her next time I see her."

"Well, by all means," Douglas told him. "Who am I to stand in the way of love?"

"Thanks, Douglas," Arthur beamed, unfolding the paper.

"Douglas...?" Arthur said after a moment's silence.

"Yes, Arthur?" he responded, taking a sip from his coffee and leaning back in his seat.

"Why is there a picture of Skip on the cover?" he asked.

The pilot sat up in his chair and put the coffee on his desk, roused to attention by curiosity and something akin to dread. "Let me see that." Arthur handed him the newspaper and he read the title: "Detective Defies Death: Infamous Holmes faked suicide to prove innocence."

Below that was a photo of a man who looked a great deal like his former captain standing with two other men. The caption read: "Sherlock Holmes (center) shakes hands with Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of Scotland Yard (left) with blogger Dr. John Watson (right)."

"Well," said Douglas. "At least we know what happened to him now."

–

Mrs. Hudson opened the door after she heard the knock. There were two men. One was a tall, middle-aged man, and the other was a boyish looking fellow with a wide grin.

"Hello, Madam," greeted the older man. "I'm Douglas. This is Arthur-"

"Hello!" said the younger one cheerfully.

"And we were wondering if we could speak with Mar- Mr. Holmes?"

"I'm sorry, no reporters," she told them, closing the door, but Douglas slid his foot in the way to block her.

"We're not reporters, actually," he explained. "I'm a pilot, and he is a steward. We're friends of Mr. Holmes."

Mrs. Hudson knew enough not to be taken in. "I think I'm aware of all of Sherlock's friends."

"Really?" responded Douglas. "And are you aware of all he's been up to these past three years?"

"Well, no," said Mrs. Hudson, pondering over the question. "Not exactly."

"Well, I am. And I'd be happy to share these amusing tales with you if I could just be allowed to speak with the man."

She looked the two men over; they seemed harmless enough. In any case, she would keep her eye on them until Sherlock could confirm their story. If not, he was more than capable of dealing with them. "The boys are out right now," she explained. "But they should be back any minute. Would you like some tea?"

Douglas smiled. "Tea would be most delightful."


End file.
